


Holding Hands

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Holding Hands, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they'd held hands was an accident. The next time wasn't, nor the time after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Hands

The first time they’d held hands, it had been incidental to what was going on. It hadn’t been their goal. It had only allowed them to run a little easier. Being handcuffed to another person didn’t make running the easiest thing in the world. 

But John would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed holding Sherlock’s hand. Hadn’t enjoyed running from the police after chinning the sanctimonious prig who’d insulted Sherlock. When Sherlock had told him to take his hand in that determined, commanding voice, John hadn’t been able to say no. He’d grabbed Sherlock’s hand in an instant, gripping tightly as they ran. And he’d known that, even if they were on the run from the police, he wouldn’t have changed anything for the world.

What he hadn’t known was the little tremble Sherlock had barely managed to hide from his voice, the thrill that went through him when John had taken his hand, or the pulsing warmth that had radiated from their joined hands throughout Sherlock’s body. By the time they’d stopped, each of them panting for breath that burned in their lungs, Sherlock felt like his whole body was thrumming. Excitement, need, thrill, desire, want, joy all twisted and coiled in his belly, causing a grin to stretch his lips wide. A grin that only deepened when John grinned back.

And when they had to stop again, John had let go of his hand but kept a hold on his coat sleeve. Sherlock had glanced down once, using his periphery vision. He hadn’t wanted John to feel self-conscious. Maybe even let go. He’d enjoyed, even loved, the tenuous contact that said John didn’t want to let go as much as he didn’t want him to. 

During the years he was gone, Sherlock replayed that night in his head over and over. It was one of his more cherished memories of John. The warmth had faded a bit in memory, the colors muting, but John’s presence was always strong and bright. The feel of John’s hand in his never lost its edge. It was one of the few memories that kept Sherlock going. And it was the first memory he thought about when he stepped foot in London again.

\----------------------------

The next time they’d held hands hadn’t been a joyous thing like Sherlock had hoped for. To be quite honest, John wasn't really holding his hand. It was more Sherlock holding onto him. John had enough to be angry about, Sherlock supposed. His best friend had been dead for two years, jumping off a building in front of him, and then reappeared during a proposal that wasn’t going all that well. He could understand the flash of anger, the hurt, in John’s eyes. He could forgive the punch and getting thrown to the floor.

While he expected John to punch him again, all Sherlock could do was grab John’s hand and hold on. His nose was throbbing and he could smell the sharp iron-y, copper-y scent of his own blood. Touching John again brought back the same pulsing warmth as the first time they’d held hands. Sherlock held on, willing to let John work out his anger if that’s what he needed. Everything he’d done before this had been for John. He could do this too.

But John hadn’t punched him again. He banked the raw edges of his anger, pushing it back into the simmering depths that it had stayed in since Sherlock’s fall. He sat back and just stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. His hand was still clenched around the lapel of the ridiculous waiter’s costume Sherlock had on and Sherlock’s hand was still wrapped around his. It was warm and solid, proclaiming that he wasn’t fighting a ghost but a living, breathing man.

After timeless moments, John pushed himself to his feet. He held out a hand to Sherlock to help him to his feet. For a second, John thought Sherlock would decline. He stared at John’s hand with an unreadable expression. Then, he grabbed it and John helped Sherlock to his feet. Blood trickled down from his nose and John felt a little guilty about that. But not enough to regret it.

Their hands stayed linked for a moment longer than necessary and John saw Mary’s sharp glance at it. He dropped Sherlock’s hand quickly after that, the warmth lingering against his palm. He balled his hand up into a fist and tucked it tight against his side. He saw Sherlock do the same and wondered. Could he have felt the same way?

Still, it was too late. He loved Mary and he was still going to propose to her. His life had gone on after Sherlock was gone. He’d had no choice and believed that that part of his life was over. That brought the regret he hadn’t felt at punching Sherlock. So many things could have been different. Maybe even better. The warmth from Sherlock’s hand finally faded from his own and John mourned the loss of it. 

\----------------------------------------

The third time they held hands, they’d inched together slowly. It was as if neither wanted to spook the other or misunderstand what was going on. It was six months since John’s somewhat messy divorce. He’d moved back into Baker Street and, by now, it almost felt like he hadn’t left. He was helping Sherlock on cases again when he wasn’t working at the clinic. It felt like home.

Tonight, they’d been watching crap telly while sitting on the couch against the wall. Two cups of tea sat steaming on the coffee table in front of them. John had drunk a little of his but Sherlock hadn’t even picked up his cup. They’d just finished up a case earlier today and neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had another for Sherlock. Tonight was one of the nights John had been able to get Sherlock to eat. He’d bought take-out from the Chinese restaurant down the block on their way home, not even bothering to override any of Sherlock’s objections. He’d straight-up ignored them.

The remains of their dinner sat on the table. Sherlock had asked, asked not ordered, that they be left there for another experiment. John had agreed, feeling too full to fight and to clean up the mess. So they’d retired to the couch with their cups of tea to watch crap telly. And to maybe ignore the tension that had been growing between them.

But about a half hour into the program they were watching, John was fed up with it. He’d lost so much time with Sherlock, due to his own inaction and to Sherlock’s actions. He was free now, Sherlock was here, and they were both back where they belonged. And he couldn’t let things just sit as they were. Not when he had this second chance.

He let his hand slide off his thigh where it had been resting. John tried to make the move seem natural, casual but he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. A glance at Sherlock showed that it seemed to have succeeded; he wasn’t even paying attention to John at the moment. John inched his hand a little closer to Sherlock, his breath catching in his throat. Questions tumbled through his mind. What if Sherlock didn’t feel the same? What if he screwed up everything between them? What if this little slice of home disappeared because he was misreading things? Could he handle that? What if it _didn’t_?

John paused then, not wanting to push too quickly or to be caught sliding his hand over. He watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye, skimming over the other man’s features. He really was beautiful in a pale, almost ethereal sort of way. A kind of Sidhe, if John were feeling rather whimsical. Then it happened. Sherlock’s hand splayed out over the couch next to his leg. John felt more than saw Sherlock’s eyes slide to his face and then Sherlock’s hand inched over. Their fingers were barely apart, the tips almost touching. Then, just like John had, Sherlock stopped and froze.

Canned laughter erupted from the telly as John considered what he wanted to do. It seemed Sherlock did indeed feel the same way he did. At least, John hoped that’s what his hand moving towards him had meant. It was time, then. Taking a deep breath, John lifted his hand and placed it over Sherlock’s. He hovered for just a second then rested his hand gently on Sherlock’s. His fingers automatically found the spaces between Sherlock’s. Then he waited.

After a few heartbeats, sounding loudly in his ears, Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s. A smile tugged at his lips as he turned to John. John smiled back, relief and happiness blooming in his eyes. As warmth pulsed from their hands throughout Sherlock’s body, he brought their joined hands up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of John’s hand. His eyes were drawn to John’s mouth as the lips parted slightly on a quiet gasp. 

Sherlock let their hands settle on the couch again. He smiled at John again then turned back to the telly. Silence still filled their flat, other than the canned laughter, but it was different now. It was settled and calm and full of unspoken but understood love. For now, it would do. It was finally perfect and John was his. As he was John’s. Their fingers stayed entwined for the rest of the program. When it came time to bed, they both headed to Sherlock’s room and shared his bed, hands still clasped firmly together.


End file.
